OK so as ever over the festive period I’m way behind on current events. Here’s the hitch to Almaty before Christmas, and I promise to get up to date soon. If you’re wondering why there are no pictures (because I know some of you like that) it’s because I’ve left all my camera gear to be picked up later and I’m writing this in Bishkek with a skeletal backpack. I’m on a holiday from my holiday. I will add them and re-post sometime in the future. I also promise tales of prostitution, New Year benders and debauchery. Patience my young Padawans.
Shymkent was never going to hold me long. I had one night out with an interesting US dude where we did our best to save each others souls with drams of Macallan, but it was in my best interests to get to Almaty as soon as possible. This wasn’t going to be easy. Almaty was some 700 km away, through bad weather and ice and snow on the road. I also never like hitching in the dark and try to avoid it, so I set my alarm for early morning in the hope of getting off to a good start.
My festive Almaty sign
Except I’m barely out the door when I realise I’ve royally fucked up already. At some point I’ve crossed a couple of time zones, and I’ve not changed or checked my mobile. Consequently it isn’t 8 am by the time I’m in the first hitch spot, but 10 am. I’ve already lost two hours of daylight and I’m barely out the city. This does not bode well.
I’m lucky that one of the hostel owners drives me to the first spot though, and before long I’m hiking along an exit highway trying to stay on my feet, aiming for the crest of the hill. The sun is glorious and shines bright and blinding off the snow, the ice is hard packed and unforgiving, but it’s better than the blizzard I’d anticipated. If it holds, and if I can make good time, I won’t be in the dark for too long.
Apart from the time-zone blip, I do get off to a good start albeit with the aid of a grubby looking dude in a shitty motor. But appearances can be deceiving and although he can’t take me far, he transports me to a much better spot, well out of the city, and then offers ME money! At first I think he’s going back on his word of a free ride, and I’m ready for an argument, but then he’s thrusting a bundle of notes through the window towards my hands. I politely decline, but I’m walking on air and full of confidence as he skids away. People here are good.
And it doesn’t stop there. I’ve barely walked a kilometre on the decent road surface, surrounded by fields and farms, goats and cows, when a young guy in a saloon pulls in. I’ve already fended off a couple of offers who wanted payment, so I’m not holding out hope yet that someone will take me for free this early into the day. In my experience it takes a good few cars before someone agrees to no payment. But at a little after 10 am, I’ve snagged a ride ALL THE WAY to my destination. For free. I honestly can’t believe my luck.
Yet it continues. Although my new companion doesn’t speak a word of English, he takes me to a road side cafe. Now this kind of place you’d never know existed if you didn’t already. It’s basically a shack, but once inside, it’s a warm, farmhouse kitchen, and the clientele are insatiably curious. They’ve never seen the likes of me in their restaurant, and staff come out from the woodwork and in through every door to inspect the stranger. Women in the kitchen are grafting with rolling pastry, and I’m treated to a delicious meal of beef and…um…something. Sorry I’ve never been much of a travel foodie – remembering all the names of international grub isn’t easy. It was just good ok?
The toilets out the back were not. I’m directed through a stables with various filthy animals baying and mewing, trying not to go arse-over-tit on a combination of snow and poo. I’m lucky I manage to keep my food down, hacking my guts up with the stench. Of course my driver friend in the rotten cubicle beside me isn’t phased at all and is chuckling to himself as I emerge with streaming red eyes. I suppose it’s more good practice for India.
Refreshed, we’re underway in no time and eating up the kilometres. I’m literally about to attempt a charade for “you’re a good driver” (and he was – best I’ve ridden with in a long time), when we hit black ice and come off the road.
Now I’ve spun off the road once before in Scotland. I thought I was going off a cliff too but the crash barrier saved me. In the process I killed a sheep. But if there’s one thing that the experience taught me is how to corner properly and that ‘turning into a skid’ doesn’t really work. And it’s no different here. Once the car decides what it wants to do, it does it, and there is little or nothing you can do about it. It’s damage limitation.
And so it starts to go as we’re going a little too fast over ice, and there’s the dreaded moment when you realise control has been lost. Of course this was the first time it’s happened to me with someone else driving, and as a result the fear factor escalates. Turning into the skid, he over-compensates, and we smash the side of the vehicle into the central crash barrier. Then we spin 180 facing on-coming traffic, before careening backwards for some distance and at some speed into a ditch. Eventually we come to a stop. I realise my left hand is squeezing the shit out of his right forearm.
Aside from being a little shaken up, we’re both ok, and it could have been a lot worse. We’re so lucky there wasn’t another vehicle too close and the road was quiet. The only other thing to note, is that I was astounded just how many times I can shout the word “fuck” while going backwards into a ditch. You learn something about yourself when you’re in an accident. I learned I like to say – “fuck.”
We’re back on the road soon enough but the driver’s side is a mess. Still, once again we’re (I’m) counting my lucky stars that it’s still roadworthy and drives fine. Again, that could have been a lot worse. Yet there’s a deathly silence from the front seats. A cloud of humiliation descends. Not that we were talking much before, but there’s a tension in the air purely developed from the embarrassment you can feel from my pilot. There’s nothing I can do to help him and he’s clearly upset. I was driving alone when I spun off the road – nobody I knew was there to see me – and I thank heaven for small mercies. He was clearly falling out with himself.
He manages to explain that he blames tiredness while purchasing red-bulls at the next gas station, and I give him the benefit and buy the story, agreeing eagerly. “Ahhhh yes that’s what it was aye!” We’re still a hell of a long way from home, it’s getting dark and in spite of smashing back a couple of energy drinks, there’s still that nervous tension. When you’ve come off the road once, you’re petrified you’re going to do it again. As a result, sometimes I’ve freaked out as a passenger when I think the driver is taking the corner too fast – only to realise it’s just me being a massive witless bellend. But it’s astounding to think I’ve come all this way, through all these countries that can’t drive for shit, and this is the first time an accident has occurred. I hope that it’s the last.
It’s pitch black soon enough, and we’re just on straight road for what seems like an eternity. At one point I pass out, but even that doesn’t break the journey up that much. Of course my driver doesn’t have the luxury, and he presses on. We arrive on the outskirts of Almaty mid-evening.
Unsure where to take me, I try to explain the word ‘metro’. Although it’s the same in both Russian and English, it takes another game of charades to convince him. It’s an Oscar winning turn in pretending to walk underground and get on a “CHOO-CHOO!” I then make train wheel motions with my arms, and the unmistakable “TUTUDUHDUH-TUTUDUHDUH” noise of the tracks. It took me an age to figure out how to spell it for inclusion in the story, but by god can I impersonate a train.
We drive down dark streets in the outskirts. Nothing is looking like a metro station. Eventually the car pulls up and he makes eating motions with his hands. I’m then invited into his home, where I’m fed a second time and I meet his wife. It’s a tiny little place barely fit for one, but they insist I eat and drink my weight in pasta and tea. His wife joins us for the trip into town.
Take a bow Kazakhstan
And what a trip it was. I feel so bad for them with his wife in her dressing gown in the back seat as it takes maybe another hour into the city centre – with a massive traffic jam in the other direction! The direction they of course have to return. I feel ashamed, and we gesture and try to break the language barrier again, but soon enough he’s swung the car round, pulls to a stop, points a finger and turns to me:
“METRO!” He beams.
Sure enough, there’s the welcoming sign of the Almaty metro, and I’m two stops away from home.
It’s certainly times like this that words fail me. I grasp his hand and shake it almost aggressively, uttering heartfelt thanks in 17-ish languages. Or just gushing my appreciation anyway I know how. I’m fighting a glassy eye as I step on the underground and locate my hostel with ease. What a hero. Only two rides, twelve hours, 737 KM and I’m in Almaty, Kazakhstan. Now let the festivities begin!
Hitchhike to India leg 52: Shymkent to Almaty
OK so as ever over the festive period I’m way behind on current events. Here’s the hitch to Almaty before Christmas, and I promise to get up to date soon. If you’re wondering why there are no pictures (because I know some of you like that) it’s because I’ve left all my camera gear to be picked up later and I’m writing this in Bishkek with a skeletal backpack. I’m on a holiday from my holiday. I will add them and re-post sometime in the future. I also promise tales of prostitution, New Year benders and debauchery. Patience my young Padawans.
Shymkent was never going to hold me long. I had one night out with an interesting US dude where we did our best to save each others souls with drams of Macallan, but it was in my best interests to get to Almaty as soon as possible. This wasn’t going to be easy. Almaty was some 700 km away, through bad weather and ice and snow on the road. I also never like hitching in the dark and try to avoid it, so I set my alarm for early morning in the hope of getting off to a good start.
My festive Almaty sign
Except I’m barely out the door when I realise I’ve royally fucked up already. At some point I’ve crossed a couple of time zones, and I’ve not changed or checked my mobile. Consequently it isn’t 8 am by the time I’m in the first hitch spot, but 10 am. I’ve already lost two hours of daylight and I’m barely out the city. This does not bode well.
I’m lucky that one of the hostel owners drives me to the first spot though, and before long I’m hiking along an exit highway trying to stay on my feet, aiming for the crest of the hill. The sun is glorious and shines bright and blinding off the snow, the ice is hard packed and unforgiving, but it’s better than the blizzard I’d anticipated. If it holds, and if I can make good time, I won’t be in the dark for too long.
Apart from the time-zone blip, I do get off to a good start albeit with the aid of a grubby looking dude in a shitty motor. But appearances can be deceiving and although he can’t take me far, he transports me to a much better spot, well out of the city, and then offers ME money! At first I think he’s going back on his word of a free ride, and I’m ready for an argument, but then he’s thrusting a bundle of notes through the window towards my hands. I politely decline, but I’m walking on air and full of confidence as he skids away. People here are good.
And it doesn’t stop there. I’ve barely walked a kilometre on the decent road surface, surrounded by fields and farms, goats and cows, when a young guy in a saloon pulls in. I’ve already fended off a couple of offers who wanted payment, so I’m not holding out hope yet that someone will take me for free this early into the day. In my experience it takes a good few cars before someone agrees to no payment. But at a little after 10 am, I’ve snagged a ride ALL THE WAY to my destination. For free. I honestly can’t believe my luck.
Yet it continues. Although my new companion doesn’t speak a word of English, he takes me to a road side cafe. Now this kind of place you’d never know existed if you didn’t already. It’s basically a shack, but once inside, it’s a warm, farmhouse kitchen, and the clientele are insatiably curious. They’ve never seen the likes of me in their restaurant, and staff come out from the woodwork and in through every door to inspect the stranger. Women in the kitchen are grafting with rolling pastry, and I’m treated to a delicious meal of beef and…um…something. Sorry I’ve never been much of a travel foodie – remembering all the names of international grub isn’t easy. It was just good ok?
The toilets out the back were not. I’m directed through a stables with various filthy animals baying and mewing, trying not to go arse-over-tit on a combination of snow and poo. I’m lucky I manage to keep my food down, hacking my guts up with the stench. Of course my driver friend in the rotten cubicle beside me isn’t phased at all and is chuckling to himself as I emerge with streaming red eyes. I suppose it’s more good practice for India.
Refreshed, we’re underway in no time and eating up the kilometres. I’m literally about to attempt a charade for “you’re a good driver” (and he was – best I’ve ridden with in a long time), when we hit black ice and come off the road.
Now I’ve spun off the road once before in Scotland. I thought I was going off a cliff too but the crash barrier saved me. In the process I killed a sheep. But if there’s one thing that the experience taught me is how to corner properly and that ‘turning into a skid’ doesn’t really work. And it’s no different here. Once the car decides what it wants to do, it does it, and there is little or nothing you can do about it. It’s damage limitation.
And so it starts to go as we’re going a little too fast over ice, and there’s the dreaded moment when you realise control has been lost. Of course this was the first time it’s happened to me with someone else driving, and as a result the fear factor escalates. Turning into the skid, he over-compensates, and we smash the side of the vehicle into the central crash barrier. Then we spin 180 facing on-coming traffic, before careening backwards for some distance and at some speed into a ditch. Eventually we come to a stop. I realise my left hand is squeezing the shit out of his right forearm.
Aside from being a little shaken up, we’re both ok, and it could have been a lot worse. We’re so lucky there wasn’t another vehicle too close and the road was quiet. The only other thing to note, is that I was astounded just how many times I can shout the word “fuck” while going backwards into a ditch. You learn something about yourself when you’re in an accident. I learned I like to say – “fuck.”
We’re back on the road soon enough but the driver’s side is a mess. Still, once again we’re (I’m) counting my lucky stars that it’s still roadworthy and drives fine. Again, that could have been a lot worse. Yet there’s a deathly silence from the front seats. A cloud of humiliation descends. Not that we were talking much before, but there’s a tension in the air purely developed from the embarrassment you can feel from my pilot. There’s nothing I can do to help him and he’s clearly upset. I was driving alone when I spun off the road – nobody I knew was there to see me – and I thank heaven for small mercies. He was clearly falling out with himself.
He manages to explain that he blames tiredness while purchasing red-bulls at the next gas station, and I give him the benefit and buy the story, agreeing eagerly. “Ahhhh yes that’s what it was aye!” We’re still a hell of a long way from home, it’s getting dark and in spite of smashing back a couple of energy drinks, there’s still that nervous tension. When you’ve come off the road once, you’re petrified you’re going to do it again. As a result, sometimes I’ve freaked out as a passenger when I think the driver is taking the corner too fast – only to realise it’s just me being a massive witless bellend. But it’s astounding to think I’ve come all this way, through all these countries that can’t drive for shit, and this is the first time an accident has occurred. I hope that it’s the last.
It’s pitch black soon enough, and we’re just on straight road for what seems like an eternity. At one point I pass out, but even that doesn’t break the journey up that much. Of course my driver doesn’t have the luxury, and he presses on. We arrive on the outskirts of Almaty mid-evening.
Unsure where to take me, I try to explain the word ‘metro’. Although it’s the same in both Russian and English, it takes another game of charades to convince him. It’s an Oscar winning turn in pretending to walk underground and get on a “CHOO-CHOO!” I then make train wheel motions with my arms, and the unmistakable “TUTUDUHDUH-TUTUDUHDUH” noise of the tracks. It took me an age to figure out how to spell it for inclusion in the story, but by god can I impersonate a train.
We drive down dark streets in the outskirts. Nothing is looking like a metro station. Eventually the car pulls up and he makes eating motions with his hands. I’m then invited into his home, where I’m fed a second time and I meet his wife. It’s a tiny little place barely fit for one, but they insist I eat and drink my weight in pasta and tea. His wife joins us for the trip into town.
Take a bow Kazakhstan
And what a trip it was. I feel so bad for them with his wife in her dressing gown in the back seat as it takes maybe another hour into the city centre – with a massive traffic jam in the other direction! The direction they of course have to return. I feel ashamed, and we gesture and try to break the language barrier again, but soon enough he’s swung the car round, pulls to a stop, points a finger and turns to me:
“METRO!” He beams.
Sure enough, there’s the welcoming sign of the Almaty metro, and I’m two stops away from home.
It’s certainly times like this that words fail me. I grasp his hand and shake it almost aggressively, uttering heartfelt thanks in 17-ish languages. Or just gushing my appreciation anyway I know how. I’m fighting a glassy eye as I step on the underground and locate my hostel with ease. What a hero. Only two rides, twelve hours, 737 KM and I’m in Almaty, Kazakhstan. Now let the festivities begin!